The Shadow of Betrayal at Home
Emma Thompson stands by the stove, carefully stirring a pot of beef and barley stew in her trusty cast-iron casserole—perfect for this kind of dish. Her son, Oliver, her pride and only hope, should be home soon. She imagines his delight at the hot meal lovingly prepared by his mother. Wrapping the casserole in a tea towel to keep it warm, she tucks it into a tote bag and heads to Oliver’s flat in the neighbouring block. She has her own key—just in case.
Recently, she spoke to Oliver on the phone. He called her mobile, as usual, but Emma, who still prefers the old ways, called him back on the landline. His wife, Chloe, answered and said Oliver was at work. But he had just told her he was working from home now! Someone was lying. And Emma was certain it wasn’t her son.
Chloe had swept into their lives like a whirlwind. A girl from a remote village with no education, no job, and no place of her own. How could Oliver, clever and ambitious, be so blinded by love? He insisted on marrying her despite his parents’ pleas to wait. They tied the knot, and Chloe moved into the cosy two-bedroom flat Oliver’s parents had gifted them. Thankfully, the property was in his name.
Chloe didn’t work, spending her days “finding herself.” Oliver, meanwhile, worked dawn till dusk to support them. Recently, he rented another flat—supposedly for work, because Chloe’s relatives from her village kept visiting. Especially frequent was her “cousin” Liam, with whom she claimed to have been close since childhood. Emma stayed out of it, but her mother’s instincts told her something was off.
Today, she decided to surprise Oliver with his favourite meal. Entering the flat, she kept the hallway dark to avoid drawing attention. From the living room, a raucous pop song blared. Peeking inside, Emma froze. The tote bag slipped from her grasp, and the casserole clattered to the floor. In the room, wrapped in each other’s arms, were two people dancing—Chloe and a man who was clearly not her cousin.
The music stopped. Chloe, pale-faced, rushed into the hallway. “Emma!” she exclaimed, forcing a smile. “I wasn’t expecting you!”
“I can see that,” Emma replied coolly, fighting to keep her composure.
“Would you like to come in? We’ve got cake,” Chloe offered, clearly hoping for a refusal.
Emma forced a smile. “I brought Oliver’s dinner—his favourite. I hope it hasn’t gone cold,” she said, handing over the bag. Chloe, relieved the storm had passed, promised to keep it warm.
Emma stepped outside and sank onto a bench in the courtyard. At this hour, the playground was empty, the children asleep. Swinging gently, she tried to gather her thoughts. She had done the right thing by not making a scene. Chloe would have twisted it, invented excuses. But dropping the casserole—that was a misstep. Emma, an A&E nurse, was used to staying calm in crises. She saved lives, made split-second decisions, never fumbled. Yet here—such a blunder. But how could she stay composed when it was her only son at stake?
She decided it wasn’t over. Chloe wouldn’t change her ways. A week later, Emma tried again, this time with a batch of sausage rolls. She slipped in quietly, phone in hand, and recorded the scene. The same music played, but the dancing had escalated into something far more intimate. Finishing the recording, she knocked. Flushed, Chloe cracked the door open. “Sausage rolls for Oliver,” Emma said, handing over the bag before leaving.
At home, she weighed her options. She could confront Chloe alone, show the evidence, and kick her out. But Chloe might spin lies to Oliver later, claiming his mother had framed her. Another option was to tell Oliver outright. But he, kind-hearted and trusting, might believe it was just a mistake, just a kiss. No—she needed to be certain.
On Saturday, Emma and her husband invited themselves over. She brought more sausage rolls. After tea, she looked at Chloe and asked, “Found yourself yet?”
Oliver blinked at his mother—she never spoke like this. Chloe, sensing trouble, muttered, “Not yet.”
“Maybe I can help,” Emma said, placing her phone on the table with the video playing.
Oliver stared. “What is this?” His gaze flicked between the screen—where his wife and “cousin” were anything but familial—and Chloe, who looked away.
“Good film, son?” Emma asked, keeping her voice steady.
“Are you cheating on me? He’s not your cousin?” Oliver’s voice shook. “Chloe, say something!”
“What can she say?” Emma cut in. “How could you be so naive?”
Chloe stood, her face crimson. “Fine, he’s not my cousin,” she spat. “We came here together—no money, no prospects. Then there’s you—nice little boy with a flat and a mum who bakes. We thought we’d use you, see where it led.”
“You said you loved me,” Oliver whispered.
Chloe scoffed. “People say a lot of things. You shouldn’t be so trusting.”
She stormed off to pack. Oliver sat motionless. His father stayed silent, trusting Emma’s judgment. She prayed silently: Please, don’t let him chase after her.
When the door slammed behind Chloe, Oliver looked at his mother. His eyes asked, What do I do now? His world had shattered—his family, his love, his hopes. First betrayal cuts deepest.
“Let’s have some tea,” Emma said gently, knowing that in crisis, a moment of calm is medicine.
Oliver took two sausage rolls. His mother, wise and strong, always found a way. And now she knew—time and her love would help him start again.
